In Every Way
by forthegenuine
Summary: They were, in every way, practically almost married.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** : This work is my Sherlolly Secret Santa gift for _Ukthxbye_ , who requested a fake-married canon-compliant Sherlolly fic. You'll find not-so-subtle clues as to which episodes the scenes fill in for in each chapter. Cross-posted to AO3.

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It was during an uncommon lull before the holidays, when London's criminal element seemed to have taken an interlude from evildoing to take part in their own Yuletide celebrations, that Sherlock found himself in a hotel lobby, staring at rows of neatly arranged name tags, all laid out in alphabetical order.

He sighed as he picked his up— _Sherlock H. +1––_ and did his best to ignore the overly-cheery woman who presided over her little army of laser-printed labels. He watched her adjust the names to fill in the gap his tag left behind, as his phone chimed and vibrated from inside his coat pocket.

"Hey, mate," John's text read. _God,_ he only called him "mate" when he was trying to butter him up. "Jeanette's just rang, turns out she's free tonight, so…" Sherlock stopped reading there, thrilled at having escaped what would have been a thoroughly mortifying evening being John Watson's plus-one. He was about to rip the name tag off his coat lapel when he heard his name called.

"Sherlock!" Molly exclaimed. He turned to see Molly Hooper, minus her familiar lab coat and blue gloves, looking surprised but no less pleased to see him. She was dressed smartly, in low-heeled shoes, fitted trousers, and a polished top. He saw that she already had a _Molly H., St. Bartholomew's Hospital_ tag on her blouse. She also wore her hair down, save for a festive, bright red barrette that kept her hair from her face, just above her left ear. It took several beats for his brain cells to register what was different about her, when he realised this was the first time he'd seen her outside of Bart's. "Hi! What are you doing here?"

"I was supposed to be here with John, but he had better plans." He waved his phone with the text still illuminating the screen for emphasis.

"Right," Molly said knowingly, elongating the vowel just a bit. "Oh, what's her name's––Jeanette's schedule finally opened up, did it?" she asked, a wry smile quirked her lips.

Sherlock returned her with a smirk of his own. "Essentially."

"Well, if you're staying, you can be _my_ plus-one," she offered, a faint blush creeping up her cheeks.

Suddenly the prospect of being home alone seemed less attractive than it did a couples minutes ago, for reasons he could not think of at the moment. He clicked off his phone and put it in his pocket. With an outstretched arm and a slight nod, he gestured toward the table laden with light refreshments and followed Molly in the direction of the biscuits he'd had his eye on earlier.

Over plates of small sandwiches and ginger nuts, they discussed plans for the holidays. Sherlock, who was now very grateful for an audience, told Molly that John was going to his sister's for Christmas on a misguided belief that she had finally quit drinking.

"Oh, sorry," she cried sympathetically, and his heart warmed. "But isn't there a Christmas do at Baker Street next week?" she asked in consolation. "At least everyone will be there then."

He contemplated this and his face softened, as he reached to fill his plate with more ginger nuts.

Several minutes later, he and Molly found themselves in a rather intriguing conversation with a doctor of medical virology. They discussed applications of the field in criminal cases.

"Sorry, if you'll both excuse me," Molly interrupted, swishing her plastic cup of half-drunk, overly-sweet lemonade. "I just need the ladies'."

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock followed her as she ducked in direction of the loos.

"Your wife is tremendously good at what she does."

Sherlock blinked. "Sorry, who?"

"Er, Dr. Hooper, M-Molly… who was just here?"

"Oh," he began, emitting it more as a sound rather than an indication of understanding, until his gaze was pulled downward and he remembered his name tag. "OH! Yes!" For a fraction of a second, the words stayed with him: _wife, Molly, married_. He let them linger in his head, like the first, unfamiliar sip of wine. The only context for which the word "married" passed his lips was when he'd tell people he was married to his work. He certainly did not have time for mundane, trivial things like emotions because there was The Work to attend to, he wanted to explain. But because the virologist was beginning to look at him oddly and because he found no point in particular to disagree with, really, he added simply, "She is. She's incomparable."

"Well. I'd best circulate. You've got my card. Pleasure to meet you, Sherlock."

"Thank you. Likewise."

When Molly returned, she asked after the absent virologist. "Did I miss anything while I was gone?"

"No," he said decisively, looking everywhere else but at her. "Let's mingle, shall we?"

 _asibasibasibasibasibasibasib_

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Comments and feedback are greatly appreciated! :)


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thanks so much for the reviews, follows, and favorites! Hope you enjoy the second chapter!

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"You married?"

Sherlock turned his head to his left but kept his shoulders hunched, as if protecting the small tumbler he held between his hands, wrapped in black fingerless gloves. His vision was screened by his own hair, grown long and even more unruly in the months since his death. He never imagined he would file 'haircuts' under _things he would miss from his former life_ , but at least it let him fit in with the locals… as much as a posh British man could fit in with the locals in a small fishing town in Estonia.

The inquiry came from the man at the other end of the bar, for the barkeeper was busy cleaning the unused glassware with a dingy cloth. He always appeared to be cleaning something, but in Sherlock's eighth visit to the establishment, the pub remained in a perpetual cloud of wretchedness, one that attracted a certain type of patron. And to his credit, he did not look out of place there.

Sherlock found himself with an excess of time to study and consider human behavior. He tried on and discarded different personas like paper masks, at each stop on his world tour to bring an end to Moriarty's vast criminal empire. He was surprised to discover how many conversations with strangers revolved around whether or not he was married. His usual line about being "married to his work" didn't quite seem to have the same flair as it did when he was a consulting detective back in London. And the truth actually turned people off to him. So this time, _what the hell_ , he decided to try on one small lie.

"Yes." Much to his surprise, the word slipped out of his mouth with ease.

"And what is her name, this person you are thinking about?" he prodded.

"Molly." It was the first time in nearly a year he'd said her name out loud, but it certainly wasn't the first time she crossed his mind. In truth, he thought about Molly Hooper more times than he could count, and more times than he cared to admit to anyone, especially himself. It became his most well-guarded secret, one that kept him company through long, lonely nights. The ache with which he said her name was something he'd neither rehearsed nor intended.

"You are English?"

"Yes."

"So tell me, English," the man finished his drink in a single gulp, and signaled for another one before continuing his line of questioning. "Why are you here tonight instead of with her?"

"It's complicated." He tipped his head back, taking in the whole shot of vodka. He kept a hiss at bay, as the alcohol seared its way down his throat. His terse reply could have ended the conversation there. It seemed to be a tacit rule among gruff, silent men that they were not obligated to share every detail of their lives just because they shared a bar. But, then again, Sherlock didn't want to seem too reticent, and decided to give him a little more. "But the short answer, is work."

The other man nodded in understanding. "She's pretty?" he asked. He shifted on his barstool and leaned imperceptibly closer.

"Beautiful," he corrected. Images of her flashed behind his eyes, and he could feel the beginnings of a smile form at the edges of his lips, despite the miles and the months that separated them. He recalled her in their last days together (furtive meetings, contingency plans, code names, and all), and tried to forget all the times he'd been cruel to her, promising himself that if he returned— _when_ he returned—he would be different. "She's smart. Brilliant. Funnier than I give her credit for," he laughed, in spite of himself. "Kind. Selfless. Loyal. Generous…" He stopped himself when he remembered something someone told him once, about the best lies being half-truths. Then he also remembered the mission. "What about you?" he deflected. "Are you married?"

"Yes," replied the man, his voice a booming contrast to the dour room. "Several times," he added, chuckling at his own joke, though Sherlock failed to see the humour in it. "Good for the soul, marriage. Maybe it's why I married so many times."

"When it's with the right person…" He surprised himself again with the sagacity of his voice, on a subject he had no personal experience with.

"You are very right, English," he laughed. He got the bartender's attention, flashing two fingers at him. Two drinks were poured, and the man stood and sat down next to Sherlock, sliding the second drink between his hands. He clinked his glass against Sherlock's. " _Terviseks_!"

" _Terviseks_ ," he echoed.

His head still spinning a little, either from the vodka or thoughts of home, or both, Sherlock paid for the tab. He watched the other man leave first, the door closing behind him, before his hand went to his pocket to feel the solid outline of the object he had slipped in there two drinks ago. He knew that he would sustain a bruise on his ankle, when he deliberately lost his footing earlier and grasped his new acquaintance by the sleeve to break his fall. The drunken stumble looked real enough, that Petrov didn't notice Sherlock swipe his key from his pocket.

He sniffed audibly, trying to coax more oxygen into his brain, as he pulled up the zip on his coat––he'd long ago filed his Belstaff under _things he would miss_ ––up to his neck. He was ready, he thought, for warmer climes. On to Khartoum.

Back in his rented room, Sherlock checked the burner phone which lit up with two consecutive message alerts. Not bothering to remove his coat first, he opened the older text. It was from the only contact on the mobile.

MERRY XMAS FROM M&D. AND MYSELF.

He opened the second one.

DR H ALSO SENDS REGARDS.

That night, Sherlock dreamed of long chestnut hair and a pair of smiling brown eyes.

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As always, feedback is greatly appreciated. Cheers! x


	3. Chapter 3

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"Tell you what…" she said brusquely to the room's sole occupant, without so much as a greeting. She was still reeling from the row with Tom, despite putting an hour and several Tube rides between them, that she didn't even feel embarrassed when she turned up unannounced and uninvited at the doorstep of 221B. "Forget what I said yesterday about not being able to go crime-solving with you anymore. I'm an adult, and I can choose my own friends and how I want to spend my own time." This all came out in a rush of breath.

Sherlock looked up from his chair, blinking rapidly and looked as though he were trying to fill in the blanks on the other side of her conversation.

He was different somehow, Molly thought, after his return. And she hoped he was different enough to know better than to ask what her fiancé would have to say if he knew where she was. Or more importantly, who she was with. "So, have you?" a challenge rising in her voice, her chin tilted slightly. "Got something you've been working on?"

She felt his gaze drift to the engagement ring on her finger, and she almost felt the compulsion to hide her hand from his view. His eyes landed on hers. "Actually, there is one…"

She watched him snatch a photograph from his collage on the wall behind the couch, and listened while he explained his theory about his so-called 'markers.' She was transfixed by his every word, not because he was being particularly show-offy or brilliant, but because she had always marvelled at the boyish enthusiasm he possessed for his work that made him so lovable... lovable as a _friend_ , she stressed. She had to remind herself of the dangers that came with this man––and not the kind of danger that put John in a bonfire the previous night. She was beginning to think that perhaps Sherlock was not the best diversion from her issue involving _Sherlock_.

"This one," he was saying, "is an estate agent, who happens to have an open house viewing this morning." He cleared his throat, and added very quickly, "We'd have to leave now, I've some visitors arriving at noon. If you've got the time, I can arrange for you to meet them."

"Okay," she agreed. She utterly admired his single-mindedness, having already queued up their next case. She refocused her own efforts on the mystery at hand, and wondered out loud, "You think this is somehow related to that missing man from the train?"

"I don't know. And I hate not knowing." He crossed the living room to retrieve and put on his coat.

"Oh, hang on," she paused before joining him. "I nearly forgot. These are for you." She dipped her hands into her bag, and presented him with several large rolls of papers. "I borrowed them from Howard Shilcott and picked them up on the way here." He took them and gave her a quizzical look. "Last night, you said you needed maps," she explained.

A corner of his mouth turned up into a curve. "So I did. Thank you." He placed the maps on the coffee table. A moment hung between them for a few instances before Sherlock popped up the collar of his coat. "Ready to look at a three-bedroom flat in Islington?"

She nodded and led the way downstairs.

In half an hour's time, they stood side by side in front of a _Welcome Open House_ sign. Sherlock rang the doorbell but barely gave her a glance, seeming resolved instead to stare intently at the door, as if beckoning whoever was on the other side to hurry up. "We'll be an engaged couple, who are curious about the property. Is that okay?"

It seemed like the most reasonable cover, under the circumstances. "Yeah," she concurred quietly, and summoned up a cheerful face. "How do I look?"

He turned to her then, eyes roaming her face, as if really considering the question. "Like someone's fiancé," he answered in a voice that Molly couldn't read. But before she could give it more thought, the door opened.

While she had wandered off, play-acting as if she were admiring the newly renovated kitchen, the text messages arrived. They came in a succession of _I'm sorry_ s and _Please let's talk_ s that were so sweet, she couldn't simply ignore them. She owed Tom that much. Instead of looking at three-bedroom flats with a pretend fiancé, she should work on not letting things fall apart with her actual one. She stopped her fingers from traversing the beautiful marble countertop and went to look for Sherlock.

She found him speaking to Rat #5, pulled him aside, and told him she had to go. She tried to keep the disappointment from her voice, but wasn't sure if she succeeded. "I'm sorry, too, about the clients coming later on. But I'm sure you'll manage."

He murmured, "I'm sure."

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"Well, it's a shame your Dr. Hooper had to be called away. We would have loved to have met her. And thanked her for taking such good care of you during that whole business." For several years afterward, Violet Holmes would refer to That Whole Business of pretending her younger son was dead with capital letters, never really knowing what to call that period of his life.

Sitting on the couch in Sherlock's living room, she paused for a moment, watching her son brood in his chair across from them, his hands steepled in front of him from time to time. She exchanged a worried glance with her husband. Sherlock hadn't said a word since informing the two of them that they would not have the pleasure of being introduced to his pathologist friend––the one both he and Myc spoke so highly of––after all. "Maybe you can bring her 'round some other time. We're in the city until Saturday, of course."

"Til Saturday _afternoon_ ," her husband clarified, finally chiming in. She shot him a withering look.

"Just as well." She knew how to read her boy, who appeared to her more than a little preoccupied. She had a very strong suspicion it had something to do with the someone he was trying very hard to not talk about. She knew not to press him, for now. "It's been a rather hectic morning as it is. You wouldn't _believe_ what your father's misplaced this time!"

There was a minute slack in her son's shoulders, and she heard a muted sigh released. "Do tell, Mummy."

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Thanks so much for reading. Please let me know how you're liking the story so far! Cheers x


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Thanks to everyone who's favorited, followed, and reviewed! I hope you're enjoying so far...

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"I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes," she declared, breathless from her sprint from the cab to the A&E reception area, her heart racing wildly. It was not the only part of her physiology that was out of sorts. She also had not been able to stop trembling or keep her stomach from lurching since John called her earlier that night, informing her that Sherlock had been shot and was in surgery. She received an update from John a short while ago, on her way over to hospital.

The nurse's fingers began typing away at the computer in front of her. "Name?"

"Molly Hooper."

Some more typing. "Relation?"

"Um, spouse. I'm his wife," Molly answered, with an uncertainty hedged in her voice that she hoped went unnoticed. But as soon as the words left her mouth, she instantly regretted them.

It was perhaps not the most ingenious identity to assume, what with Sherlock being a minor celebrity these days. _And she was a doctor herself_ , her inner feminist decried. Why the hell hadn't she used her own credentials to get herself through the door? The word "friend" sounded completely inadequate in her head, so she embellished a little. Yet, she was more than a friend, wasn't she? Was there a checkbox in a person's next-of-kin for an association in which two people were more than friends, but not exactly lovers? She stopped herself. Now was certainly not the time to debate her relationship status with a man recovering from a gunshot wound.

The nurse helping Molly gestured to another nurse, and pointed at the screen. Molly bit her lip, bracing herself for embarrassment, or worse, of being turned away. The pair of nurses looked up at her. "He'll take you to see him," one said. Molly thanked them both.

Sherlock's room was on the second floor. Molly impatiently watched the elevator floors light up, gripping her handbag tighter over her shoulder until the doors opened and the two of them walked down the corridor. The nurse held the door open to Sherlock's room.

"Mr. Holmes, you wife is here to see you," the nurse addressed Sherlock in a stage whisper. Molly saw him shift a little, and his eyes opened in small slits. She was grateful for the time of night and the darkened room, for her cheeks were surely crimson at the mention of her deception. If Sherlock registered it, he certainly did not let it show. The nurse motioned to her this time. "He's just come out of surgery so he'll be a bit groggy. Surgery went well, but he'll need some rest. The doctor will be a while longer, I'm afraid."

Molly thanked the nurse again, then she was alone with Sherlock. She in moved closer to examine him, treading as softly as she could until she stood right next to the bed. He looked wretched in his state, breathing through a nasal cannula, an IV and needle running through his veins, and a bandaged wound on his side. But she observed thankfully as his chest rose and fell normally, and took comfort in the steady beeping of the machine that mirrored his heartbeat. She became aware he was watching her. Her eyes met his. "Hi."

"Hi," he managed. His voice was hoarse and weak, and it was barely louder than a whisper.

"John texted earlier. He said he and Mary'll be back in a bit. So. For now, you've got me." Not knowing what to do with her hands––she never quite knew what to do with her hands––she kept them clasped in front of her to keep from fidgeting, hovering over his bedspread, just a few inches shy of where his hand rested. "I'm sorry about this morning…" she began again, unable to bring herself to finish the sentence, thinking that the very last exchange they might have had was the image of her slapping him across the face, thrice. Even if he was high off his rocker and probably didn't remember it, it still would have lived in her conscience.

He had grown more alert with each passing moment, and he appeared to shake his head, as if to say _there is nothing to forgive_. His fingers bridged the empty space between them and took her hand in his. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze that seemed to root her to the ground. The look he gave her was something of a combination of apology, gratitude, and perhaps more than a small amount of morphine, that had the opposite effect on her, and made her feel like floating on air. She found the irony of him comforting her so endearing that it robbed her of anything else to say.

She saw his eyes flutter shut and she watched him for a few moments, his hand still holding on to hers. She in turn, covered his hand with her other one, careful not to jostle the pulse oximeter on his fingertip.

"Wife?"

She glanced up at him, her eyes wide, but as soon as she saw his mouth quirk and the corners of his eyes wrinkle, a smile broke on her own face. "Shut up," she laughed quietly. It felt strange to her to find levity in such a place and under such circumstances, but the soundless chuckle that came from him was all the endorsement she needed. "I didn't think they'd let me in to see you."

Just then, the door opened, the sound magnified in the relative quiet of the room. Molly turned her torso to see who had entered the room. She couldn't be sure, but she thought she felt him—dare she think it?—caress the back of her hand with his thumb. She dismissed the thought immediately and supposed she must have simply brushed his hand by accident.

Mary Watson stopped short when she saw someone else was in the room. "Molly. Hello," she greeted in a hushed voice, which contained a hint of subdued surprise.

Molly understood the initial shock she must have given her new friend. If she were Mary, she wouldn't imagine finding her next to Sherlock's sickbed either, especially not this late at night. "Mary, sorry, hi," she answered, as she reluctantly disentangled their hands.

"How's he doing? Has he said anything yet?"

Molly shook her head. "He's in and out of it, but the nurse said it looks promising."

"Good. I'm glad." Mary reached over, and touched Molly lightly on the arm. "I suppose I'm here to relieve you. I can watch him for a bit, if you need to go…"

"Oh. Okay." Molly adjusted her bag over her shoulder, giving Sherlock one last glance. "Just tell him I said 'bye?"

"Of course," said Mary sweetly. "I'll tell him."

Leaving the hospital, Molly couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right. She immediately felt ridiculous because Sherlock was with Mary, and couldn't be in better hands. She decided she was simply tired, and started for home.

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"Was there anyone else you wanted here, sir?" Anthea checked her phone, and saw an update that the Watsons were about to arrive shortly. It was just the two of them in the back of the town car, which idled on the runway next to the private plane.

His response came without hesitation, resolute. "No, there's no one."

"All right. If there's nothing else…" she began to move to open the door for him.

"Actually…" This stopped her movement. He reached into his coat pocket, drew out a white envelope, and passed it to her. The only marking on it was the letter M scrawled in the center, and she knew instinctively it wasn't meant for his brother nor his mother. "Would you see to it that it's delivered––after I'm gone?"

"Of course, sir." She slipped the envelope in her Filofax without looking at it. He moved to open the door, but before he could launch his body out of the car, her tone also slipped, shedding the pretence of protocol, to one of familiarity. "You don't think it would have been kinder for her to have been here in person?"

It was his turn to stop mid-motion, half his body still inside the vehicle. He could only glance downward. After a small pause, he said, "Thank you for all your help, Anthea."

She nodded. "Good luck, Sherlock," she told him.

He shut the car door, and she watched as he walked to stand next to the plane, awaiting the Watsons' arrival. She instructed the drive to press on.

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Thanks for reading! Feedback is greatly appreciated. Cheers! x


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Fixing "The Abominable Bride" plot holes with more plot holes... Enjoy!

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"… But then I've always known I was a man out of his time." Holmes turned from the window and addressed his friend once more. "There _is_ one small detail, however, isn't there, Watson? Of why the Brides enlisted me to prevent a murder they intended to commit?"

"Indeed," Watson agreed, dropping the pipe from his mouth. "That part is still a bit hazy. I fear there may have been some dangerous fumes in that vault."

"I believe I can shed some light on the matter. Lady Carmichael was persuaded to hire me by someone on the inside."

Watson's head tilted. "You mean to say your brother… Lady Carmichael mentioned in passing that Sir Eustace was acquainted with Mycroft."

"She may have simply dismissed that connection as coincidence. But she could not have ignored a second connection merely as such."

"A second connection? What do you mean, Holmes?" Watson asked, his brow now furrowed.

"As you know, my dear brother is a very traditional man. But in some ways, he is also a man out of his time––perhaps it is a family trait." Holmes paused for dramatic effect, and when he saw it left his audience unmoved, he cleared his throat and continued. "He believes that if a job were to be done, it ought to be done by the best person, regardless of their sex."

"Yes, I conjecture it is that belief that led him to hire my wife as an agent."

"Ah, but Mrs. Watson isn't the only female operative employed by the British government…" He turned toward the door, addressing the figure that had noiselessly made its way up the stairs. "Isn't that right, Miss Hooper?"

"Good morning, _Mr_. Holmes."

"Miss Hooper!" cried Watson, whose eyebrows shot up to the middle of his forehead. "I do not understand."

"Watson, may I present Miss Molly Hooper?"

Watson stood in greeting, and took Miss Hooper's hand. He wore an expression of great perplexity.

"Dr. Watson, it's a pleasure to finally meet you." She amended, "Well, officially, at least."

"Likewise," said Watson, whose eyes have not yet returned to their normal size. His gaze was fixed on the newcomer, still unaccustomed to seeing this version of her. "And I beg both your pardons, but I should like to know what the meaning of all this is?"

"I fear we have a confession to make. Mr. Holmes––Sherlock and I are familiar to one another." Watson's eyebrows shot further upward still. Miss Hooper continued, "To the public, we are Holmes and Hooper, professional rivals, but they are no more than façades for who we truly are."

"The deception was necessary for the case."

"All this time, Holmes, you knew she was—I should say— _is_ a woman." Watson said, accompanied by a slight air of disappointment.

"Of course I knew. That is how we met. Miss Hooper's father passed, leaving her nearly penniless, but with the knowledge she possessed of physiology and anatomy, the result of self-study, she earned herself a position at Scotland Yard, working in the mortuary." Watson could not help but notice Holmes's eyes remained fastened on the lady as he spoke. "I had known her nearly three months before I was able to deduce her real sex. I asked after her circumstances, and offered her another opportunity to use her talents, so I made the necessary introductions. Mycroft found it truly remarkable that an individual could outwit members of the city's law enforcement, and determined that she be retained to work for the government."

A faint blush began to rise on Miss Hooper's cheeks, but she continued recounting her part of the account. "I spent months cultivating my position among the Brides and passed whatever secrets I could discover to the elder Mr. Holmes. The Brides saw my employment at the Yard as an asset to their goal. In turn, I manipulated my way into their inner circle, surreptitiously foiling nefarious activities where I could. I persuaded Lady Carmichael to engage Sherlock to allay herself from guilt after the crime had been enacted. I was there the night you and Sherlock were at Sir Eustace's, Dr. Watson. I'm afraid I might have been the one who gave you a fright. Grimmer still, I was unable to lead Sherlock to Sir Eustace quickly enough to prevent his murder.

"But now that the Brides' society is no longer secret, their number dissolved, I have departed from their ranks and have no need to carry out our deception. You must understand, Dr. Watson, how difficult it has been for us to keep our association a secret from our dearest friends.

"I do hope you can forgive me and overlook the harsh words I said to you while I was in character playing Hooper, and I hope that I can count on your friendship, just as I know you'll absolve Sherlock of his role."

Watson let out a laughed in spite of himself. "How can I refuse?" he said in surrender. "But one last thing: why reveal this to me now?"

"An excellent question, Watson, and I am very pleased to answer it for you. In the nearly two years of working clandestinely with Miss Hooper, I began to admire her beauty and intelligence, and she––thank God––grew to tolerate my pig-headedness and arrogance. You said so yourself the other night, I am flesh and blood. And while romantic entanglements do not interest me, I do believe in love, which I have found in abundance. Yesterday, when I said that the church was full of Brides, it struck me so, that since our mission had run its course, I asked Molly to be mine… and she has accepted."

Holmes held out his hand for Miss Hooper, which she took in hers. He raised their joined hands to his lips and kissed the back of her fingers. Miss Hooper's blush deepened, seeming to cast her in a merry glow.

Watson studied the two of them, and silently berated himself for not having the presage to see what a handsome couple they made. "I never thought I would live to see the day!" he exclaimed. "Congratulations! Both of you. I can't wait to tell Mary."

"Actually…" began Holmes, who exchanged a guilty look with his newly-minted fiancé.

"She already knows, doesn't she?" deduced Watson in vexation, throwing his hands up in the air.

The couple looked at one another in silent regret at possibly ruining the happy news of their engagement.

Watson interrupted. "May I _at least_ have the honour of being the first to know when you two expect your firstborn?"

A smile spread across each man's face. "Agreed!" said Holmes, shaking Watson's hand, while Molly laughed joyously at his arm.

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"Sherlock, we're here." John nudged his friend, as the vehicle came to a full stop in front of the Baker Street flat. When no response came, he jabbed a little harder at Sherlock, who took up a corner of the backseat, slumped in a misshapen pile of coat, legs, and curly hair. He heard Sherlock mutter, "Agreed," before he straightened his body from its previous position in a cat-like stretch, and drew a long breath. He ran his hands over his face before his eyes, blinking several times, took in his surroundings. "We're here," John repeated.

Someone opened the door for them. "Mr. Holmes." They all looked up at Anthea. She held out a white envelope at Sherlock's direction. "I suppose you want this back?"

Even in coming down from his high, there was a gleam of recognition in his eyes. The Watsons could only scrutinise Sherlock in curiosity and confusion, but he gave them no response.

"Thank you," he replied, and climbed out of the car, stuffing the envelope inside his coat pocket.

John looked at Mary questioningly, but she merely shrugged her shoulders and followed Sherlock out of the car. John braced himself for a long day.

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	6. Chapter 6

**A/N** : Thanks so much for your patience, all! Brace yourselves for some (dorky) flirting and (sort of) double dating with the Watsons. I do hope you enjoy!

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"Damn!" he cursed softly to himself. He patted his clothing again, checked all his pockets, and no sign of the key to John and Mary's.

Even though he was in the middle of working a case–– _four_ cases, Sherlock corrected––Mary asked him to pop by, citing the fact that he hadn't seen his goddaughter in three whole days. "Just let yourself in with the key we gave you," her text read. And for some reason, she felt the need to add, "Molly will be here, too," followed by that ghastly winking face emoji.

But now that he thought about it, he hadn't actually seen the damn key since the pair of them reluctantly vouchsafed it to him, while Mary was still pregnant. He did have a vague memory of said key being handed to him, accompanied by silly stipulations like "Ring first before you come over" and "Do not lose this key, I mean it, Sherlock!" _Damn_ , he winced internally.

He automatically arrived at the easy, but certainly more troublesome, solution of picking the lock, but second thoughts kicked in, as they usually do. Losing the key in the first place would probably be enough to incur the wrath of a couple of very sleep-deprived, very irritable new parents. He just about shelved the idea of picking the lock, when the front door opened for him, and for a moment he considered congratulating himself on his newfound ability to open locked doors through sheer force of will––the _wonders_ it would do for business. When he saw her standing in front of him, however, he simply considered himself lucky.

An aura of softness and warmth surrounded Molly, as she held a fluffy bundle of pink and yellow in her arms. While he was lost in the image of her cradling this tiny human being, an unnamed thing began tugging curiously somewhere underneath his chest.

Before he could break the silence, she put an index finger to her lips and cocked her head in the direction of their friends, fast asleep, while the television droned softly in the background.

He stepped inside quietly and watched Molly put Rosie in her pushchair––the latest four-and-a-half-star-rated convertible hybrid model of a parent-approved brand, Sherlock learned recently.

"What are you doing?" he mouthed.

"Kidnapping Rosie," replied Molly in a hushed voice, while she put on her coat and scarf. "Want to come?"

"Sure."

Though he felt certain he had covered the neighbourhood on foot before, the streets felt unfamiliar to him. It wasn't only that he felt the liberating absence of the compulsion to check his phone for updates on current cases or the possibility of a new one, every thirty seconds. There was something else, too. For instance, he never noticed there was a bakery so close by. _Is that park round the corner new? Have the birds always been this exuberant in this part of the city?_ It wasn't until they were mere blocks away from the Watson residence, that Sherlock realised the only thing new about the outing was the person walking beside him, who was in the middle of recounting her frustration about her newest intern.

He stole glimpses at her direction as she talked, and noted this was his first time alone with Molly and the baby. He half-wondered when he began collecting and filing away this sort of data, but since he arrived at no answer, he simply made more room for the ever-expanding catalogue of details involving Molly Hooper in his mind palace.

"And the worst part is," she was saying, "is that he's not a terrible person. He means well. And he brings us these _amazing_ bakes that he makes. I have to admit, I dream about his banana bread loaf."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly at the thought of Molly fantasising about other men's banana bread loaves. "You could always reassign him, stick him somewhere awful until he decides to quit on his own." Molly cast him a scandlised look. "But not until you've extorted his banana bread loaf recipe for yourself, and invited me over," he proposed triumphantly.

She laughed. "You're incorrigible." She lay an involuntary hand on his arm as she shook her head. His eyes moved downward, to the spot where contact was made.

A woman interrupted them, waving "Good morning!" and stopping them short in front of her. "Ooh," she said, delightedly indicating the buggy and its occupant. "May I?"

"'Morning, sure," Molly smiled and unwrapped some of Rosie's blankets so that the woman might peer at her.

"Hello, sweetie," she cooed at Rosie. "She's a darling!" She looked up at Molly and Sherlock, appraising them for a few seconds, studying each of their faces, like a discerning museum patron trying to work out an abstract painting. "Are those Daddy's eyes and Mummy's nose she's got there?"

"Oh," Molly started, the smile on her face fading just a bit. "No, she's not––"

"—Quite done deciding who she wants to look like yet." This earned him a quick look from Molly, but he continued, "You know how babies are."

The woman couldn't but agree. "That's right. Give her a few more months," she said reassuringly. She gave the three of them one last look, said good-bye, and carried on walking past them.

Once the woman was out of earshot, Sherlock felt compelled to explain himself. "It was easier than to––" his words trailed, and he gestured with his hands in order to draw attention away from the burning sensation that was building on the tips of his ears, despite the cold air.

"Yeah, of course," she agreed, rather quickly.

Sherlock resumed their walk, pushing the buggy ahead of him. When he spoke again, his voice took on a tone of feigned concern. "You know," he began. "I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you'd make a terrible kidnapper."

"Oh dear," she lamented, worrying her bottom lip. "Is it because I didn't leave a ransom note earlier?" she asked, matching his artificial worry with affected disappointment.

"Among other things."

"Mine would have definitely been one of those notes where the letters are glued together from magazine and newspaper cuttings."

"Amateur," he teased. "That sounds less like a ransom note, and more like a collage."

"I used to love those assignments in school! Don't know what I learned from doing them. I just knew I loved them when I was a kid."

The smile on Sherlock's face broadened as he pictured a chestnut-brown-haired little girl, her hair gathered up in pigtails, with a pair of plastic child-safe scissors in her hand, cutting up an issue of _The Sun_ with a look of intense concentration––one that he knew very well––on her face. He tucked this image away as well.

They were still sharing a laugh over Molly's failed potential as a criminal when they crossed the threshold back at John and Mary's. As soon as they were indoors, Rosie let out a loud wail summoning her parents, who looked like they were enjoying a cuppa and the silence afforded to them by their daughter's godparents, from the kitchen.

After exchanging greetings, Molly picked up Rosie, observing, "She just needs her nappy changed." She headed upstairs.

"Let me help," said John, following her.

Sherlock moved toward the couch after unpacking and stowing away the pushchair, the way he'd seen John do after outings with Rosie. He was already checking his messages before completely wresting his coat off himself.

"So," said Mary, swiping his phone from his hand and replacing it with a mug of tea. She sat down beside him, carefully balancing a mug of her own. "Did you three have a nice walk?"

"Yes," he answered slowly. "It was… lovely." Mary gave no reply, which instantly made him regret choosing the adjective. "What?"

She shrugged her shoulders, but her face contained anything but indifference. She had an air about her that, Sherlock thought, if she didn't have a mug between her hands to keep them occupied, she'd be rubbing them together gleefully. "I am not going to say a word."

"That'll be a first," he said dryly.

"The first for what?" asked Molly, coming down the stairs.

"The first time Sherlock will be joining us for lunch, even though he's working a case." Mary's blue eyes gave off an impish twinkle, and she looked pointedly at Sherlock. "Isn't that right, Sherlock?"

"Really?" Molly cried. "Lunch! What _has_ the world come to?"

"What's the world come to?" inquired John, who tread down the stairs shortly after Molly, with Rosie in a new outfit in his arms.

Molly supplied, "Sherlock is staying for lunch."

"But he's working on a case."

"Sorry, he's got _four_ cases he's currently working on," Mary amended.

John shook his head, as if disbelieving. "There's a first time for everything, I suppose."

Sherlock looked from one face to the next. "Is everyone having a little joke?"

"We might even have a group photo later on," suggested Mary, ignoring him.

"Photographic evidence that Sherlock Holmes _does_ eat while he's working," added John. "The press will go wild."

"I'm going to wait in the kitchen." Sherlock stood and crossed the living room, plucking Rosie from John. "Come along, Watson." He couldn't say what made him do it, perhaps it was being around the ease and company of his friends, but he sent a wink in Molly's direction as he left the room, and she smiled back in return. He was sorely thankful to have Rosie to distract him from the fizzing in his veins.

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In the cab that drove him away from Ella Thompson's office, he took his mobile out of his pocket with quivering hands. He drew in a breath as he scrolled down his text messages, opening the old thread between the four of them. The crack in his heart deepened when it occurred to him that he would never receive new notifications on that thread again. He pulled up the group photo they took that afternoon, using the camera timer on Mary's phone. Sherlock saved the photo to his phone's camera roll, and stared out the window, trying to swallow the tightness penned in his throat.

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Working on the latest chapter, promise. Thanks so much for reading! Feedback and comments are greatly appreciated. Cheers! x


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Thanks so much for everyone's patience. As usual, life had its way of interfering with fandom. Hate how that happens. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and that the wait was worth it!

Much thanks to everyone who's kudos'ed, commented, and subscribed. It means the world to me, you have no idea.

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"Hiya," she greeted the nurse, with a tamed cheeriness that befitted a hospital lobby. "I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes." A feeling of déjà vu washed over her–– _different hospital, different circumstances_ , she told herself. Molly was thankful it did not come with the same urgency as the previous time she had to go through a stranger wearing medical scrubs to see him. She shifted her handbag, purse at the ready, in case she was asked for identification.

The nurse typed a succession of keystrokes, clicked about the mouse, and read off the computer screen. "Are you… Molly Hooper?" she asked, looking up at her as she pronounced her name.

Molly blinked in surprise. She gave thought to the possibility that John––though moodier of late––might have put her name down, knowing she'd want to visit Sherlock. Or perhaps the instructions came from Mycroft, wielding some government sleight of hand to arrange for her to be there. In either case, she replied in the affirmative.

The nurse smiled and pressed a button by the side of her desk. "Go right in. He's in ward 73A." The doors marked "Authorised personnel only" swung open with a mechanical _whoosh_. "Through there, second corridor on the right."

Molly thanked her and followed her directions, counting off the numbered doors in her head until she reached her destination. She knocked tentatively before she heard a muffled, "Yes?" from the other side of the door. She opened it and stepped through.

The television was on––some programme on the BBC––but upon her entrance, Sherlock sat up on his bed gingerly, pressing a bedside button that raised its angle a little.

He looked even more poorly than the last time she saw him, when she'd examined him in the ambulance. She had hoped her reticence then reflected the warring emotions that wavered between worry and anger underneath. She purposely said little to him, except to give him her medical opinion and voice her concern for his health. In hindsight, she realised that Sherlock was probably too high to have noticed her silent protest. So much for sort-of channeling Gandhi and mounting her one-woman campaign of grudging obedience.

His skin looked pallid, even in the light that filtered in from the window blinds. He had grown a visible stubble on his face, and it was well on its way to becoming a full-fledged beard. His hair was more of an unkempt heap rather than its usual state of looking like it had been disheveled by design.

Her heart dropped at the sight of the batch of new injuries that were notably absent from her previous inventory of his person. Stitches peppered the arch of his eyebrow and a bruise coloured his cheekbone under a swollen left eye, the whites of which were bloodshot.

What prevented her alarm from completely setting in was the vague inclination that there was something about these injuries she hadn't quite made the connection to yet. Molly set it aside, and focused on taming the maelstrom of emotions that spent the past few days brewing.

She schooled her voice when she finally greeted him, choosing the simplest word. "Hi," she said softly.

"Hi," he returned. "It looks worse than it feels," he offered quickly, as if his words were meant to give her some comfort––they did, a little. "So, um… They're treating me for acute kidney failure, malnutrition, and––the other thing," he said, letting the third malady remain unspoken. "I'll be ready to go home day after tomorrow," he added, optimism plastered on his words like, well, plaster.

"Good, I'm glad," she replied tersely.

The niceties out of the way, she pressed her lips into a straight line while he looked everywhere else except at her. And, as were wont between two people who had a great deal to say to one another, they sat in silence, letting the various machines in the room do the speaking for them.

Both pairs of eyes were distractedly drawn to the medical drama unfolding on TV. Her mind drifted to the times when Sherlock used her flat as a bolt-hole, and the countless hours of crap telly they sat through together. Though he never admitted it, she liked to think he also took delight in the soundtrack it provided their briefly shared lives. Before she could dwell on how distant those memories seemed presently, a doctor with dun-coloured hair appeared on screen, and suddenly, it clicked for her.

"Did John do that to you?" Her question cut through the room. It contained no accusation, nor did it contain pity. "I noticed him favouring his left hand when he came to pick up Rosie last night." There was a flash of what that looked like admiration in his expression, but she ignored it. His non-response was answer enough for her, and she went on, feeling something like a dam had broken within her. "I miss her, too. So much." For a moment, the grief she felt the past several weeks washed over her again anew. Her voice wavered and she could feel prickling in the backs of her eyes, but she had to get it all out, before second thoughts compelled her to shelve it along with the endless number of other things left unsaid between them. "But there's Rosie to think about now. She needs all of us. You can't honestly think that you deserved everything that's happened to you, everything you've done to yourself. You and John––you two need to sort things out between you. It's what she would have wanted." His eyes found hers at this. "There, that's all I have to say."

The room reverted back to its state of mechanised chittering. But a nod, almost imperceptible but for the minute drop of his chin, inexplicably lifted a fraction of her sorrow and seemed to quiet her disordered mind.

A nurse––"Cornish" according to her badge––appeared at the door. Her eyes flitted between the room's occupants. She looked to be deciding whom to address. "Hello. Just checking to see how our patient is doing," she said after a pause, having made up her mind that Molly needed to be kept abreast of Sherlock's progress.

Nurse Cornish inspected the monitors and recorded the readings on her tablet. Satisfied with her findings, she said to both of them, "Vitals look good. He might even be released tomorrow if this keeps up." Then, smiling archly, she turned to Sherlock, and tipped her head in Molly's direction, "Is this your––"

Molly caught something resembling panic in his eyes. "Um, yes-yes, this is her. She's my––Molly, Molly Hooper. This is her."

It was surreal to watch Sherlock reduced to a sputtering mess, especially since she found herself on the familiar end of those occasions more times than she could count. And if Molly wasn't so perplexed by the reason for his state, she might have found some amusement in it. "Hi," was all she could say upon her introduction, and gave a perfunctory little wave.

"Er, Nurse Cornish, I think we're good here. All good."

"Okay. Give us a buzz if you need anything," she offered as she reached the door.

"Yes, thank you. 'Bye."

Once they were alone again, Molly realised she'd been standing the whole time. For lack of anything to do, she sat on the chair, her back straight, and folded her hands on her lap. "Sherlock?" she began slowly.

"Yes?"

"Did you… give them my name at the front desk?"

His shoulders sagged a little before he answered. "Yes. I thought… it'd be more convenient. For you, I mean. In case you decided to stop by. Which you did."

"Right. Did you predict that I'd come and see you while you're in hospital two weeks ahead of time, too?"

"No…" he replied quickly. "I didn't predict it…" His voice took on that particular register that made her feel like the whole world was in the room they were in. "But I was hoping you would."

A smile played on the corners of her lips. "Turn up the volume, will you?" Molly leaned her back against the chair, while Sherlock sank a bit deeper into the bed. They watched a bit of crap telly.

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"So, Molly, what's new with you? I feel like we haven't talked much lately, besides about Rosie…" he said, then glanced meaningfully at Sherlock. "And the other baby in our lives." Their months-long rift concluded, John wasted no time in getting to get back to normal, which (naturally) included cake and taking the mickey out of his newly reconciled friend on his newly revealed birthday.

To his credit, Sherlock merely rolled his eyes at the comment, but John could tell he was suppressing any number of comebacks, playful and otherwise.

Molly looked up upon hearing herself addressed. She was intent on her slice of cake, or rather, a piece of cake she had swiped from Sherlock's plate. "Nothing much, really." John noted this was the second piece she had absconded with, after Sherlock put his slice between them for easier access. "Actually, I published a new paper. It came out earlier this week."

"That's wonderful, congratulations!" He raised a forkful of cake. "Cheers!"

"Thank you," she smiled.

Sherlock cleared his throat before John could ask her what the paper was about. There was an unfamiliar quality to his voice that John was unable to name. "Yes, congratulations. I meant to tell you, I thought it was very well-written."

"Oh, you've…" Molly swallowed. "You've read my paper?"

"Don't be silly. I've read all six of them."

"W-well, they're not actually my papers. Co-authored."

"Nonsense. They might as well be. Your ideas were, by far, the most cogent. Your latest one is no exception."

"Thank you, Sherlock."

"You're welcome."

John, who picked up his mug of coffee after the first round of congratulations was offered, sat across from them in unfolding interest. He observed the blush blooming on the apples of Molly's cheeks. And the matching shade of light pink that grew on the tips of Sherlock's ears.

"So," Molly said, rising from her seat. "I'm going to go and get a slice of cake to take back with us for Mrs. Hudson. You boys want anything else?"

Both of them shook their heads, and John stared at his coffee, having forgotten to take a sip.

"Cogent?" John looked up to find Sherlock had not been speaking to him, but rather muttered the word to himself with a regretful and disbelieving air. His face looked about as perplexed as it did when he encountered a formidable case as any at Baker Street. John himself did not know just quite what to make of the scene he had just witnessed––if there was anything remarkable about it at all. All he knew was he very much felt like a character from a historical period drama who was chaperoning the strangest courtship known to man.

As John watched them head back to Baker Street together, with Molly leading the way, he spotted Sherlock's right hand drift up and hover at the small of her back, but he seemed to find control of himself and drew it away.

John shook his head. Although he might have been wrong about Irene Adler, he might not be far off about nights in High Wycombe… if those two ever sorted things out.

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It had been… not a bad birthday, Sherlock thought. And as he observed the sleeping pathologist on his sofa, he couldn't imagine a better conclusion. (Well, in fact… he _could_ …) But he had to admit––not a difficult undertaking––that he didn't at all mind being under Molly's supervision during his recovery. He studied her serene face until his brain became occupied by John's words, _Do something while there's still a chance_.

He crossed the room on bare feet to turn off the TV and retrieve his phone from the mantelpiece. He opened the text that remained unread since its arrival that afternoon, and sent a reply, which he had done only once before. _Quod periit, periit_. What is done, is done. A few moments later, the message was marked 'read' with a timestamp, and he deleted her from his contacts.

After covering Molly Hooper with one of his blankets, he made his way to his own bed to dream of things that were not so far away.

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	8. Chapter 8

**_A/N:_** Hellooooo, it's me... and thank you for following me along this journey... and for your patience throughout. I feel like I spent much of it apologizing for not updating, so thank you for sticking around! I can't tell you how much I appreciate you reading, commenting on, kudosing, subscribing to, and bookmarking this little story.

It just so happens, it is nearly a month shy of the first anniversary of its inception via last year's Sherlolly Secret Santa fic exchange. (hooray, me!) There will be an epilogue to wrap up this fic, since I've officially run out of canon material to play with. Please enjoy!

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After four-and-a-half hours on the road, the SUV's tyres finally squealed to a halt. The street was quiet in the early hours of the morning, the car's engine the only sound as it sat idling.

John looked out the window, as if to confirm he was really home. His head still felt like it was in motion, inertia on a bit of delay. There was his house, with Rosie nestled snugly in her crib somewhere inside and Mrs. Hudson's red Astin Martin parked on his drive. It seemed like a lifetime ago when he first laid eyes on the vehicle, parked askew on his "therapist"'s pavement and an angry detective in its boot. In truth, in many ways, it had been a lifetime ago.

"All right?" he asked said detective, the first words uttered between them in past several hours.

Sherlock only nodded vacantly.

John slipped out of the car. His body relished being able to stretch out after the long journey. All he could think of was enveloping his beautiful Rosie in his arms and breathing in her baby-sweet scent. But before he closed the door, he leaned into the cabin. Instead of bidding him good-bye––they would probably see each other in a few hours again anyway––he opted to voice what was likely the theme that had Sherlock's mind preoccupied. "Tell her."

At this, Sherlock glanced up at him. He looked as worn as John felt, bone-tired and bleary-eyed. His lips formed a straight line, and yet, he nodded wordlessly.

John watched as the taillight of the Land Rover disappeared around the corner, silently wishing its passenger some luck. He was going to need it.

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"Dr. Hooper."

Molly turned her head at the sound of her name, the pile of paperwork she'd been willing herself to focus on for the past hour forgotten in that instant. The man standing at the doorway was the last person she expected to see at the lab so early in the morning, though he belonged to the same gene pool as the person who inconveniently beguiled her thoughts.

"What odd hours you keep," he observed pointedly, moving into the room. "One might deduce you're deliberately trying to avoid someone. Or something to that effect."

"Mycroft," she greeted. He was dressed as impeccably as he usually did, but something was a little… off… about him. A dark thought suddenly wormed its way into her mind. "Is everything okay? Did something happen to…?" she let her voice trail off, pushing the memory of that dreaded phone call as far as she could.

"He's fine. Relatively speaking."

Her alarm subsided, but worry took its place, biding its time just beneath the surface. She waited for him to proceed.

"You might recall the last time I dropped by, it was a matter of national security. This time, it's fair to say, is different. Certain events transpired this week, and we had reason to believe that your home had been compromised. A security team was dispatched to your residence while you were on your shift." Mycroft paused just briefly enough for a quiet gasp to escape her lips. "And a protective detail was also assigned to you to ensure that you are not under any threat. Just over an hour ago, you were given the all-clear. I wanted to personally assure you of your safety and your privacy."

"Thank you," was all she could think to say. Her brain struggled to process the information and the myriad of questions that sprouted, all of them fighting their way to the tip of her tongue, seemed inane.

"You haven't been to see him, I take it." She shook her head. "Dr. Hooper, you are by far the most…" he hesitated, waving a hand vaguely, as if searching for the right word, which Molly believed ultimately eluded him, " _inconvenient_ out of all the persons with whom Sherlock has chosen to attach himself." She wondered vaguely if Mycroft was trying to give her a compliment, before he continued, "It would be a terrible shame for him to lose your presence from his life."

She looked at him for a moment, not knowing what to say. He began to move towards the exit. Molly had had enough experience with the elder Holmes brother to know that he truly thought cryptic bon mots were acceptable places to end conversations. She stopped him. "Mycroft. What did you mean, that this time is different? What's this about?"

"Family," he replied gravely. She swallowed and waited for him to elaborate.

It was then that Molly realised what was different about him. It wasn't a loss in inches per se, but Mycroft didn't seem to stand quite as tall as he normally did. His shoulders were slumped at an unfamiliar angle and his chin didn't have that imperious tilt as it usually did. It might have simply been a trick of the light, or the fact that she hardly slept at all the night before, in any case.

He turned again to leave again, but over his shoulder, he added, "When you decide to go to Baker Street, do watch your step." With that, he left.

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She liked to stake out the area around 221 Baker Street, in case her services were ever needed.

Over the years, she'd seen dozens of visitors of all shapes and sizes go in and out of the building, but the majority of them were one-offs. There weren't many regular visitors to her "employer"'s flat. In fact, the number of Baker Street regulars was so minuscule, she hadn't bothered to learn their names. (Except Mrs. Hudson, whom she knew lived in the ground-floor flat.)

There was the blonde-haired couple who no longer frequented as often as they used to. The man still came round, but she wondered about his partner. A police officer––a detective by the looks of him––would often stop by, along with various members of law enforcement. She mostly stayed away when they milled about. And the same posh-looking, nondescript town car would occasionally drive by, slow to a roll, but never actually stop in front of the building. She'd never seen its occupant through its dark, tinted windows.

Then there was the woman. She didn't come over as frequently as the others did, but when she did pay her employer a visit, he was usually more generous in his financial assistance for days afterwards. The first time it happened, she decided liked this woman.

She wasn't there when the explosion at Baker Street took place, yet she could tell from the rubble on the pavement below that it was substantial. She did not hear of any casualties, but after the explosion, she kept a watchful eye for anything that might be amiss, aside from the gaping hole on the second floor.

A few days after the flurry of activity dissipated, the woman appeared, alone. Still no sign of her employer.

She watched her disappear through the black lacquered door, her ponytail missing that familiar spring she had come to associate with her. Minutes later, the door opened again, and the woman let herself out. She was too far away to see, but she easily read the distressed expression on her face. She looked to be headed for the nearest Tube station, with her phone in her hand.

She half-wished she could give the woman some reassurance, but it wasn't really her place. Instead, she continued to rattle the cup, which held some change in her hand, at passersby.

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He was unsure of what drew him back to the scene of his sister's crime. But as her unwitting accomplice, Sherlock knew it was fitting that he put himself through the God-knows-how-many hours, sitting on the steps leading up to Molly's front door, absently watching pedestrians and making flash-deductions of them. The bitter cold only added to his penance. His muscles, which ached uncomfortably from the past week's physical toll, tensed when he finally saw her approach.

When she spotted him from a few blocks away, several emotions seemed to chase each other on her face. He was relieved to see, at least from a distance, that complete and utter hatred wasn't one of them. She did not let her eyes linger on his, dropping them to the ground instead. He was grateful she didn't turn around and walk in the other direction. His heart raced inside his chest and he stood abruptly, almost losing his balance, when she was mere feet away from him.

One would think that given all the time he sat penitently waiting for Molly to return home––not to mention the hours he'd imagined their reunion on the ride back into London––that he'd have worked out something clever to say to her. But, as usual when it came to many things concerning Molly, he was at a loss. Only a single syllable fell feebly from his lips, "Hi."

"Hi," came the guarded reply. She brushed past him, occupying a step above the one he stood on, while she dug into her handbag to look for her keys, seemingly intent on avoiding his gaze. "You could have let yourself in," she stated matter-of-factly, not even bothering to cast him a sideways glance.

"I know," he said quietly. "That's why I didn't."

Molly's hand halted its fruitless search, and she dragged her eyes up. The crease in her brow softened when their eyes met. "What's going on, Sherlock?"

There was a smudge of dirt right where her temple met her cheek. He quelled the urge to smooth his thumb over it. Then he noticed the charred smear of soot on the tip of one of her shoes. He took a step closer to her, entering her orbit. She didn't back away. He could feel warmth radiating from her. "You were at Baker Street," he murmured, the deduction falling from his lips before he could stop it.

She nodded.

"John or Lestrade?"

"Mycroft. Actually."

He did nothing to hide his surprise. An untimely chortle gurgled from within, but he managed to fight it down. Sherlock wondered what his brother must have seen in him, back in that room in Sherrinford, that compelled him to approach Molly himself. It must have been the same thing John had seen, he surmised. He thought back to his friend's parting words to him very early that morning. _Tell her_.

But Molly, whose face was at once indignant and yet more subdued than it was a moment ago, spoke first. "I know you don't owe me an explanation, Sherlock, but I deserve one," she declared firmly.

"I know. You deserve an explanation…" _And so much more_ , he thought.

"Okay. So what are you doing here? Tell me the truth."

He could give her a dozen reasons why he should leave, break her heart for the thousandth time, or tell her it was just a game. But none of those things were true. Suddenly, Sherlock realised how tired he was. Not just of the physical exertion of the past week, but from years of wearing a carefully wrought armour. Lately, the armour he used to feel at home in felt more like a ponderous burden. No small part of him was glad of the fractures Mycroft, John––and, _oh,_ dear Mary––must have seen through, past the face he wore for the world. The morbid part of him was even grateful to his sister, for breaking open a fissure. He had initially lamented its loss the day before, as he sat on the cold concrete, surveying the damage his two hands conducted on a wooden coffin.

But now he realised he went about it all wrong. Amidst the noise and the haste of the traffic on the street and the bustle of people rushing to their destinations, Sherlock only saw the woman standing in front of him, and he was ready to unravel, to rent himself completely in two for her.

"The truth is… I meant what I said, Molly," he blurted. "I came here to make sure you're okay, and to ask for your forgiveness, and to explain everything to you. But most of all, I wanted to tell you that I meant––no, I _mean_ it. I _love_ you. Really and truly."

He feared he might have ruined the words even more thoroughly than he'd done mere hours before, so he took her face in his hands––offering a silent apology for how cold they must have been against her skin––and leaning in just so, touched their foreheads together. It was as far as he dared to go, understanding that he had just shed everything he had spent so many years fabricating. He tried to fill the space between them with contrition and longing, but mostly, permission.

With the slant of her chin, she granted them all. Their lips touched, gently at first, like the kiss of the first snowfall. Then, without notice, the kiss deepened as if it had a life of its own. He ran his hands downward, lingering at her nape to pull her even closer, gliding down her back, and finally settling around her waist. Hers travelled upward, grazing the sides of his coat, bracing them on his chest and up his neck, and finding purchase as she raked her fingers tantalisingly through his hair.

Sherlock did not know which moment his eyes fluttered shut, but his senses stood in attention and all of them were tuned to Molly. His pulse buzzed under her touch, and he felt her warmth down to his bones. Kissing her was everything he thought it would be, and more, all at once. And he felt something inside him stir, like he was being rebuilt from the inside. It seemed impossible now that he had not already been kissing her before, and his heart leapt at the thought of all his future days filled with _more_.

They finally pulled away, if only because of the pesky habit of needing to replenish the oxygen in their lungs. Their eyes found one another's, almost shyly, and then Sherlock's face broke out into a grin at the same time a giggle bubbled from Molly. They must have looked a sight, he mused, standing in front of her door, snogging the breath out of one another. He found he did not mind the image at all.

It was Molly, again, who spoke first, having found her keys at last. "Would you like to come in?"

He smiled wider when he formed the word, the only answer to her question imaginable. "Yes."

 _tfptfptfptfptfptfptfptfptfptfp_

 ** _end_**


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